


Five Things That Never Happened to Crowley in the Nineteenth Century

by chestertonwhoknows



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Historical Inaccuracy, I've never been so relieved to be the first to use a relationship tag, M/M, Unadulterated Crack, is the least of Crowley's problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 11:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19333423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chestertonwhoknows/pseuds/chestertonwhoknows
Summary: After he got up to pee, Crowley's nap took a turn for the worse.





	Five Things That Never Happened to Crowley in the Nineteenth Century

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to the lower_tadfield LJ community in 2009.  
> I apologise for nothing.

"You are not speaking these words to me. These words are _not_ coming out of your mouth."

"I would have thought you'd be pleased," says Aziraphale, looking entirely too calm for a being who's obviously lost its wits. "You're always telling me to keep up with the times."

"Vegetarianism is more outmoded than your breeches," Crowley shouts from the other side of the room, trying to calm down enough to cook up a theory of who or what murdered the angel and took his place. "It's never stopped you from having pheasant with your cream sauce."

"Well, they've only come up with a name for it _now_ ," says Aziraphale, unperturbed. "My dear, if you could please stop pacing quite so intensely; you're wearing the carpet thin."

"Oh," says Crowley, stomping down viciously. "So now it's carpet rights, is it? Tell you what, why don't I just stop breathing altogether, spare those poor oxygen molecules?"

"You _are_ hogging them rather selfishly at the moment," Aziraphale points out, yawning as though to make up for it on the spot. "In fact, if you feel you'll be finished throwing that fit soon, I was hoping to squeeze in some light religious reading before bed."

Crowley turns a dubious gaze towards Aziraphale's bedside table. "Surely, you're not referring to that poorly disguised copy of the complete _Kama Sutra_?"

"A Book of Acts in its own right, really," says Aziraphale, not the tiniest bit guilty.

~*~

Aziraphale barely has time to light the match before Crowley tackles him to the floor.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?" Crowley demands, eyes wild, pinning Aziraphale down with perhaps a bit more force than is warranted by the circumstances, surely.

"I was trying to burn those books," says Aziraphale, pushing him off and straightening his wig indignantly. "Glad as I am to find you so protective of His Word, dear boy, I must ask you to stand aside. There are forty-two more Bibles in the back room; feel free to have at them."

"Have you completely lost your mind? I don't want to _read_ the sodding things."

"Then you won't mind seeing them destroyed." Aziraphale tosses him the book of matches, already taking more books down from the shelves. "Hurry up, the chance won't come again."

"Why is it coming at all?" asks Crowley. One after another, his matches fail to catch flame.

A blush creeps up Aziraphale's cheeks. "It turns out you may have had the right idea about the carpet," he admits. "I've got a nasty infestation of beetle larvae. They seem to have a penchant for the Bibles, too; it must be something in the cover material."

"Say no more," says Crowley, discarding the useless matchbook and sliding his tinted glasses down his nose instead. "I'm a man-shaped being with a mission."

~*~

The bookshop looks as though a tornado swept through.

Gingerly stepping over two splintered bookcases and the shredded remains of a Standing Fishes Bible, the demon Crowley makes his way to the back room, where he will hopefully find survivors—or better yet, a hot cup of Darjeeling.

Whatever he expected to see, it was most definitely not an equally dishevelled Aziraphale in the slow and arduous process of what to all extents and purposes _appears_ to be the mother of all blowjobs, except for the crucial detail of Ligur's optional anatomy on the receiving end.

Crowley takes off his sunglasses and blinks.

Twice.

It _won't go away_.

He splutters. "Jesus Chr—What the ho—fu—Is that even _vegetarian_?"

With an obscene popping sound, Crowley's associate takes his mouth off Crowley's boss.

"Really, my dear," sighs Aziraphale, bringing up an elegantly manicured finger to wipe some precome from his swollen lips. "When will you give up this ridiculous notion that we veggies never get to indulge in anything yummy?"

~*~

"So, I've been restocking the bookshop," says Aziraphale. "You know, after the incident."

Crowley's left eye twitches. He huddles in on himself even more, pressing into the sofa.

"I was shipped some textbooks on science—by accident, of course; you know there are Those who would disapprove—and it seems the humans have come up with something new. Psychology, I believe is the term. They're using it to make sense of their own behaviour."

"Hm?"

"Yes, I expect you'll be getting a commendation for your work on Vanity," Aziraphale says encouragingly. "Anyway, I was up late last night reading…"

Crowley snorts. "It's practically a picture book."

"…and I think I understand why you were so upset the other day."

"Do you?" asks Crowley, scowling as Aziraphale slides closer and puts a hand on his knee.

"Yes," says Aziraphale, beaming. "At first I thought you were concerned about the professional implications, having caught your supervisor fraternising—"

"Oh, G— Shut up," begs Crowley, and promptly covers his ears.

"But it's not as if you haven't been known to mix business and pleasure yourself, on occasion. So I thought to myself, dear old Crowley has been behaving oddly as of late. He's nervous around me. He shows an interest in my books. Most of all," and here Aziraphale closes what little distance remained between them on the sofa, "he's been making physical contact."

"You're not thinking straight," says Crowley, feverishly looking for an escape route.

"On the contrary, old friend." Aziraphale offers him a warm smile. "I'm finally seeing what's been plain in front of me for all these years." Lips pursed, he begins to lean in.

"No!" says Crowley, pressing back into the linen. "Don't—"

~*~

Crowley sits bolt upright in his bed, panting. He can't remember ever sweating before.

As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he sees the curtains have mostly rotted away: it's dark outside, and the windowpane is covered in snow. He urgently needs to use the toilet.

I had a nightmare, he thinks, and the memory is enough to send him back under the sheets.

An arm coils itself heavily around his middle. "Go back to sleep, dear," Aziraphale mumbles in his ear. "I need my rest, too; it's been a rough hundred years."


End file.
